


Monster Mash

by ArcsArksandArches



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Ghosts, High Fantasy, M/M, Multi, Undead, Werewolves, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:53:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12389412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcsArksandArches/pseuds/ArcsArksandArches
Summary: With a horrible burst of static a skeletal hand smashed through the screen of the laptop. A second hand followed, then a ratty mop of black hair. A girl, moving in horrible jerks and twitches, squirmed her way out with uncanny speed, launching herself at the stunned figure standing before her -- and then shrieked as she smashed face first into the chalk and salt circle like it was a brick wall."Guess I owe you an apology, Smith" Trott said, frowning at the specter in the circle as if it was a particularly loathsome cockroach. "This place really did have a ghost."





	1. The Ol' Razzle Dazzle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [threeplusfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/gifts), [ghostofgatsby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/gifts).



> *kickflips in a week late, pumpkin spice kombucha in hand, flips down my shades.* Did somebody say monster week?

With a horrible burst of static a skeletal hand smashed through the screen of the laptop. A second hand followed, then a ratty mop of black hair. A girl, moving in horrible jerks and twitches, squirmed her way out with uncanny speed, launching herself at the stunned figure standing before her - 

\- and then shrieked as she smashed face first into the chalk and salt circle like it was a brick wall.

"Guess I owe you an apology, Smith" Trott said, frowning at the specter in the circle as if it was a particularly loathsome cockroach. "This place really did have a ghost."

"Told you," said Smith automatically from where he was lounging on a row of broken down seats. He sat up, intrigued. What with the high volume of witches and charms and other supernatural resources in the city, there weren't actually that many real ghosts, let alone older ones. Let alone ones that looked like -- "Hang on. Isn't this the thing from that movie...?"

"Yep." Trott carefully handed the bottle of holy water to Ross, mindful of any stray drips on his exposed skin. Ross, still in his position as the bait, took the bottle as casually as if were, well, water. "Points to it for being only, what, ten or fifteen years behind the trend? Ross, give it a douse and let's exorcise this thing."

"No, wait!" To Trott's surprise, it was Smith who protested. "It's so little. And angry. I dunno, it seems a waste."

Trott gave Smith a disbelieving look. He gestured out to the faded, dusty elegance of old movie palace. "In 54 hours, this place is going to be filled with guests expecting a properly curated club experience. We don't need any loose ends or wild cards or rip off, overplayed characters out of J-horror. The only people who are going be killing anyone in here is us!"

A faint scritching drew their attention back to the ghost. She was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, listening to them with considerable interest. Her little mouth, too red and filled with too many teeth, was just visible behind the curtain of hair. Silent, she mouthed two words: HELP YOU?

"No!" Trott snapped, waving a hand at the faded, dusty elegance of the theater. "You're all the wrong look and also, no!"

The ghost frowned - and then bonelessly whisked herself up. Floating before them was a lovely young woman, her black hair piled in a Gibson Girl twist, her white dress turned an elaborately lacy nightgown and robe. She was sepia toned, flickering as if caught in an old movie projector. 

"Come on, now!" Smith gave her an appreciative round of applause. Ross joined in. She smiled sweetly at them and curtsied, something horrible and black dribbling between her sharp teeth down her chin. Striking a dramatic pose, wrist to her forehead she drifted gently across the circle, kicked the laptop shut with a slippered foot, then flickered out of view.

Trott sighed heavily, glaring at the last place in the circle the ghost had been visible. "Why?" he said. "Why help us - and why should we trust you to help us?"

The ghost snapped back into existence right across from him. Trott, who'd been expecting exactly that move, made a point of rolling his head slowly to give her - it - an unamused look.

I FEED the ghost mouthed, ON THEIR FEAR. I WILL SERVE YOU FOR THIS NIGHT, SEA THING. ONLY LET ME TASTE THEIR DESPAIR AS THEY DIE.

"Oh, we're not killing all of them," Ross chimed in helpfully. "Just one. Maybe two, max."

The ghost cocked its head. It gave a Trott a look down its nose and sniffed, shoulders slumping in disappointment. FINE. OFFER STANDS.

"Oh, how fucking generous," Trott snapped, but he grabbed a stool and sat. His mind was racing. A haunted theater with their own ghost on the payroll. Where to put it, to could keep it under control? He shot a look to the laptop. "You can move things on the corporeal plane?"

The ghost shrugged but looked smug. Trott pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen. "Ross, stay handy with that holy water. You-" he pointed at the specter, now nervously eyeing the gargoyle with the bottle in his hands, "-let's talk business. How much do you know about bartending and how much can you learn in two days?"

 

NOTES  
As it turned out, the specter was a terrible bartender. Instead, Trott dressed up all the bar staff as old timey ghosts, and instructed the real ghost to occasionally pop up on an unwitting patron and give them a jump scare. It was a smashing success, but the garbage court had to find a different catering crew after that one.


	2. Where the Money Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as possible, Smith tried to stick with spells that required moonlight or midnight timing. It was called the witching hour for a reason and that reason was that no self-respecting witch ought to be up at 6 in the damn morning. 
> 
> Yet here he was, yawning and stumbling to the bathroom. Ross had taken to locking himself in for a good 20 minutes in each morning and for once Smith was determined to get in there before Ross came back from his morning tromp through the woods. 
> 
> The door of their not-so-gently aging house was stuck again. Smith grumbled and put his shoulder into it in just the right spot. The door popped open - and Ross jumped up with startled yelp from where he was sitting on bathtub edge, reading his phone.
> 
> "Sorry! I thought you were -" Smith stopped mid-apology, squinting at Ross. "Holy shit, what the fuck happened to your face?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definitely not based on my own experiments with alternative organic beauty products.

As much as possible, Smith tried to stick with spells that required moonlight or midnight timing. It was called the witching hour for a reason and that reason was that no self-respecting witch ought to be up at 6 in the damn morning. 

Yet here he was, yawning and stumbling to the bathroom. Ross had taken to locking himself in for a good 20 minutes in each morning and for once Smith was determined to get in there before Ross came back from his morning tromp through the woods. 

The door of their not-so-gently aging house was stuck again. Smith grumbled and put his shoulder into it in just the right spot. The door popped open - and Ross jumped up with startled yelp from where he was sitting on bathtub edge, reading his phone.

"Sorry! I thought you were -" Smith stopped mid-apology, squinting at Ross. "Holy shit, what the fuck happened to your face?"

"Nothing! Get out!" Ross clapped a hand over his eyes and tried to push Smith out the door blind. Smith batted his hands away easily.

"You've got two black eyes! Did something backfire on you..." Smith trailed off, looking harder at Ross through his fingers. "That's not bruising. That's... mud?"

"Get out!" Ross hissed, but Smith's nose was finally catching up to his brain. There was Ross's fancy French press open on the sink and the room smelled like -

"That's coffee." Smith grabbed Ross's wrists and yanked his hands away. "You've got fucking coffee grounds smeared under your eyes."

The bedroom door slammed open. Trott, bleary-eyed with sleep and exasperation, glared at them. "What. The fuck. Are you two assholes yelling about?" 

"Ross is smearing coffee on his face!" Smith said immediately, pointing at their housemate. 

"It's a folk remedy," Ross ground out between his teeth. "Isn't that what you're all about, Smith?

"Mate, you're supposed to drink it, not apply it externally." Smith reached again for perfect half moons of dark brown smeared under Ross's eyes. Ross smacked his hand away.

"Caffeine works outside as well as inside," he huffed. "You may not care about looking like you've perpetually rolled out of bed, but I like not having massive bags under my eyes. Coffee grounds tighten the skin for a fraction of what people pay for the fancy eye creams and I can feed it to the plants afterwards."

Smith nodded seriously. "I was wondering where the plants got that dewy complexion."

Trott threw up his hands. "I'm going to go make a cup of fucking tea."

"Better save the bag!" Smith called after him. "Ross'll want it for his forehead wrinkles!"

"Toss it in the freezer and I will!" Ross shouted down the hall. "And we'll see who's laughing in ten years when I'll look great and Smith'll have a face like a dried-up apple!"

Trott gave them both the finger and headed downstairs.

 

15 minutes later Smith was warbling away in the shower and Ross marched into the kitchen, head high and coffee free. The rest of the grounds went in the organics bin - it was just about ready to be folded in with the compost pile outside - and Ross shoved beakers and bottles aside to rinse out the press in the sink. 

Trott was curled up in a kitchen chair, still in his pajamas but already absorbed in a stack of reference books and potion recipes. He'd swept Smith's bits of feather and bone and corn husk into a heap to one the side. Ross's bag of coffee lay tipped in the middle of the table, Trott absently tracing patterns in the spilled grounds with a finger as he flipped back and forth between pages.

"Hey now!" Ross protested. "I know I said it's not expensive, but don't waste it."

"Yeah, about that." Trott rubbed a pinch of grounds between his fingers, frowning at the gritty texture. "You're right. There's not much history, but there are a lot of applications here for coffee grounds, especially in the more modern schools. But nobody's using it for beauty."

"Skincare," Ross corrected, still grumpy.

Trott took a sip of tea and smiled at him over the top of his glasses. "Talk to me about face cream."

"What?" Ross said. Trying to keep up with Trott when he was on a research tear was always exhausting.

Trott gestured at the coffee. "This is 8 to 10 dollars a pound or so. How much is the fancy face cream?"

Ross shrugged. "If you mean the really high end eye creams, anywhere from 14 to 30 dollars an ounce."

Trott's fingers froze, and he gazed down at the dark brown fragments across the table with new eyes. "Well. Why the hell are we making potions?"

 

NOTES  
They did not stop making potions, but their line of organic creams and salves did very well. Well enough they could afford to put a real lock on the bathroom door.


	3. Things that go bump in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days after Ross disappeared, there was a pounding at the door and the smell of werewolf ghosting in the open windows. Trott practically flew down the stairs, even as he recognized Ross wouldn't knock, that smell wasn't quite right. Still, he flung the door open without hesitation.
> 
> The wolf slumped in the doorway was about the right height, but his hair was reddish brown instead of brownish black, his eyes a hazy green instead of icy blue - and he was struggling to keep them open and stay up on his two feet.
> 
> "You Ross's Trott?" he rasped out, rubbing at his wrists. They were red and blistered - silver burns.
> 
> "Where is he?" Trott demanded. "What's happened?"
> 
> The werewolf gave an involuntary shudder. "Ghouls," he said hollowly and then collapsed forward onto the hallway rug.

Three days after Ross disappeared, there was a pounding at the door and the smell of werewolf ghosting in the open windows. Trott practically flew down the stairs, even as he recognized Ross wouldn't knock, that smell wasn't quite right. Still, he flung the door open without hesitation.

The wolf slumped in the doorway was about the right height, but his hair was reddish brown instead of brownish black, his eyes a hazy green instead of icy blue - and he was struggling to keep them open and stay up on his two feet.

"You Ross's Trott?" he rasped out, rubbing at his wrists. They were red and blistered - silver burns.

"Where is he?" Trott demanded. "What's happened?"

The werewolf gave an involuntary shudder. "Ghouls," he said hollowly and then collapsed forward onto the hallway rug.

Trott's next hour was an excruciating trial of patience. The strange wolf - Smith - was half-starved and it took most of the pantry and half the fridge before he was clearheaded enough to garble out his story around bites of deli-sliced turkey and granola bars smeared with peanut butter. 

It was bad. Ghouls were a constant problem in any city, living in the shadows and snatching their meals off the sidewalks - which they preferred to eat alive and screaming. But this group was organized, and smart. They were targeting shifters and other creatures with healing powers - or more the point, regeneration powers. "The self-replenishing buffet," Smith said with a mirthless laugh. He paused for a swig of hazelnut coffee creamer that Trott had found in the back of the fridge. It was one of Ross's favorite flavors.

Trott took a deep breath, unclenched his hands from where they were digging into his knees, and redirected Smith into a description of the lair.

He forced himself to take the full hour, tracing and retracing Smith back through every scrap of information he could recall. At 60 minutes on the dot, Trott went back upstairs for his go-bag and the body armor and the katana. To his surprise, when he came back down Smith was also on his feet, shoving apples and packets of chips into the pockets of his ripped clothes.

"You don't have to come," Trott said. "You delivered the message, your obligation is complete. Go back to your pack."

Smith huffed and bared his teeth. To someone not as familiar with werewolf expressions as Trott, it might have looked like a smile. "Packs are dicks. And fuck obligation. I've got a deep and driving personal need to see those fuckers again." He cracked his knuckles, a keen light in his eyes.

Trott hesitated. He was exceeding leery of the kindness of strangers. At best they'd probably just get in his way. At worst it might be a set-up, some strange and elaborate trap. But on the other hand, this was Ross on the line. Smith was big, he looked like he could handle himself. If there was even a chance he could help... 

"All right." Trott grabbed his keys, tossed one of Ross's old hoodies to Smith. "Car's down the street. Let's go."

 

The ghouls had made their lair in an abandoned diner, long fallen into graffittied, boarded up ruin. A cartoon pig biting into a piece of bacon grinned in autosarcaphogist delight from the roof-top sign as Smith guided Trott silently over the brick wall of the parking lot.

There was one sentry outside the kitchen door. It wasn't a very good sentry and Trott kept his katana very sharp.

Smith melted out of the darkness from where he'd been crouched to pounce, eyebrows raised at the two pieces of ghoul on the blacktop. "I was wondering why the sword instead of a gun," he whispered. Trott made a harsh chopping motion for silence. Smith spread his hands in apology, then shifted down to all fours in a shiver of muscle, sinew, and fur. He flicked his tail and trotted into the darkness, leaving Trott to dig into his bag.

The best thing about ghouls was that they didn't like bright lights and loud noise. Ordinarily, with a nest in stand-alone building like this, Trott would go with the good old Molotov cocktail. But with Ross inside that was of course out of the question. So as Trott had brought the fancy toys. He kicked the door open, flung in both flash bang grenades into the darkness. One - two - And then the grenades went off and Trott strode in to blaring klaxons and screaming ghouls.

Smith's description of the room layout was surprisingly accurate. Trott jumped counters and rolled over cold ranges; slashing, piercing, constantly moving as the clutch howled and trampled each other in their desperation to escape. A few made it to the dining room doors. Trott heard Smith's triumphant snarl and the snick-crack of breaking bones. He silently wished Smith joy of his hunt and didn't give him any further thoughts. One by one the ghouls got that were cleaner and faster than they deserved. And finally it was just Trott left breathing. He flicked ichor off his blade and bashed open the padlock on the walk-in freezer doors. 

The smell was awful: blood, rotting food, waste, and despair. Large-dog-sized cages and kennels lined the wall and in the last one lay Ross.

By the time Smith came wandering in, wiping ichor out of his hair with the remains of somebody else's t-shirt, Trott had pried the silver manacles off and had Ross pulled into his lap, carefully tipping orange juice down his throat. To Trott's surprise Smith set right to freeing the other captives and handing food around as he did. One kitsune with a hungry, feral light in eyes took a run at Trott's unprotected back. Smith easily caught it by the neck and drop kicked it out of the room. It fled and so did the others.

Ross's eyes cracked open, and he squinted up at Trott. "Been here too long," he whispered. "Ghouls... starting to look pretty."

"Shut up," Trott said and held him tighter. "And don't you dare try to shift yet. We'll get you to the car."

With great effort, Ross raised an eyebrow. "We?"

Smith was still lingering at the doorway, giving them both an odd look. Trott scowled, but without much heat. Smith looked more curious than judging.

"It's true what you said," Smith said to Ross, not quite asking but still not quite certain as he eyed Trott. "He's really the guy?"

"No," Trott said, as Ross said "Yeah."

Smith grinned "The guy from the bus ads? 'You pay, I slay'?"

"I didn't write that," Trott said.

"I did," singsonged Ross.

Trott sighed and tossed his keys to Smith. Surprised, he barely caught them. "If you want to be useful, can you bring the car around? There's peanut butter. And ice cream," he added to Ross. "Melted by now."

"Yay," Ross said weakly but with definite cheer. "Thanks, Smith."

"Uh, yeah. Sure." With another inscrutable look at the two of them, Smith left. 

"You make friends in the weirdest places," Trott said, watching him go. 

Ross smiled, threaded his fingers through Trott's. "Thought you'd like him."

"What's his deal?"

Ross's smile only widened. "Well. I'm pretty sure he's a car thief."


	4. A Bit of Car Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The police cruiser crested the hill right as Trott finally got the car balanced on the jack. He swore every curse and name he knew as the cruiser stopped, then turned off the main road and gently bumped down his way. Of course it did. He was sat on a dirt road in the middle of a fucking field, the hazard lights blinking like a Christmas tree against the gathering gloom and chill of dusk. They were probably the only two vehicles for miles. What were the fucking odds. With gritted teeth, Trott locked the tire iron on and spun for his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit out of order on the prompts, but was actually the first one I wrote.

The police cruiser crested the hill right as Trott finally got the car balanced on the jack. He swore every curse and name he knew as the cruiser stopped, then turned off the main road and gently bumped down his way. Of course it did. He was sat on a dirt road in the middle of a fucking field, the hazard lights blinking like a Christmas tree against the gathering gloom and chill of dusk. They were probably the only two vehicles for miles. What were the fucking odds. With gritted teeth, Trott locked the tire iron on and spun for his life.

He had four lugs off and was working on the fifth by the time the cops pulled up behind him in a blinding glare of yellow headlights and red and blue flashers. Trott kept his head down and kept working. Through his sweat soaked fringe, he could see the two impossibly tall figures - Jesus, how big did they grow them out here in the country? - unfold themselves up out of the cruiser and saunter his way, flashlights in hand, boots crunching on the crusted earth.

"Good evening, sir," said the first cop, studiously polite and oh-so-casual as he played his light over Trott, lingering on the chipped red polish on Trott's bitten-down fingernails. "Having a bit of car trouble?"

"Geez, I'll say he is," said the second, circling the car and openly peering in the windows. "Trouble is, he's driving this car. Ross, get a load of this dashboard! It's more broken down than your mum."

"Fuck off, Smith," said the first cop - Ross.

"Ha ha! Just a flat!" Trott said brightly and immediately winced at his own voice. Too fucking cheerful, nobody's that cheerful to the police unless they've got something to hide. "Got my spare right here, already mostly done - _don't touch that!_ "

The second cop - Smith - yanked his hand back from where he'd been about to rest it on the trunk of Trott's beige monstrosity. Over his head, Trott could feel the two cops exchange a sharp and meaningful glance.

"Sorry!" Trott gasped, trying to smile and act harmless and _get this fucking tire off this fucking car._ "Sorry, Officer, uh, Smith? This car's a right bastard - touch him wrong when he's up on the jack and he'll topple right off onto your foot."

The last lug dropped into his hand and Trott gave the tire a yank. For once it came off easily. Trott toppled ass-first off the road into the muddy field.

The next few moments were a rush of hands and bobbing flashlights as both cops sprang to help him: lifting the tire away, hauling him up to his feet, brushing him off, and generally making nuisances of themselves, ignoring Trott's protestations that he was fine, that everything was fine, that he didn't need help and they could be on their way. 

"Sir, we're not leaving you out here with an out-of-commission vehicle," said Ross - or Hornby, according to his uniform patch - frowning at him with professionally disapproving concern. "You're lucky we came along."

"Lucky me," Trott muttered.

Officer Smith's hand tightened ever so slightly around Trott's bicep, where it still lingered after hoisting Trott out of the muck. "Exactly what are you doing out here, sir?" he said with patently fake friendliness. His thumb traced along the raised edge of the brand that curled out from under Trott's worn Slayer t-shirt.

Trott pulled away with a nervous laugh, trying to tug his sleeve down. His head was spinning - when was the last time he'd had anything other than coffee or a cigarette? He was so used to the hunger now, it was hard to remember to eat. "Just... taking a drive. Sometimes you just gotta get away, you know? Had some idea I'd sleep in the car, see the sunrise in the country..."

Hornby's frown deepened. "With all respect, that's a terrible idea in an old beater like this." He gave the wheel well a slap. Metal groaned. Trott tried not to flinch. "You get in trouble out here, there's no one to help for miles and miles."

"I know!" Trott snapped before he could stop himself. "I can keep it running." That was the point of this whole thing. Keep the car limping along, get somewhere far away. Far enough to be _safe_. 

"Car's one thing. Are you supplied for sleeping rough?" Smith plucked at the sleeve of Trott's t-shirt, his hand deliberately brushing the brand again. Prickles rose down the back of Trott's spine. "You got something warmer than this? Food? Water? Maps?"

Behind them, Hornby jammed the spare onto the hub and kicked it into place with a shriek of metal. Something red and raw surged in Trott's chest. He slapped Smith's hand away. "For Christ's sake, it's just a fucking drive in the country," he snarled. 

In unison, both cops' eyes narrowed. Their body language went still and predatory.

Fuck, oh fuck.

Trott shoved his hair back from his face, willing himself to be calm and to stop trembling. This could not be how it ended. Not after weeks of planning, after months of _actual hell._

"Please," he said, desperation coloring his voice. Please, for once in his life, would someone just believe him. "It's been a shit day - well, year. I just really need to be as far away from everything as possible."

Officer Hornby rose from his crouch, his hand drifting down to his belt. "Of course, sir. We'll just have a quick look in the trunk first."

Of course. The universe hated him. "No," Trott was shaking his head. "Why?"

Officer Smith smiled, patronizing and mean. "We've been having some trouble with people bringing drugs into the area."

"Drugs!" Trott wanted to laugh hysterically.

Hornby took a step closer, ignoring Trott's outburst. "Sir, this can all be over in two minutes. Let's just say we're getting your flat stowed away for you before you head out to enjoy your evening."

"No!" Trott crossed his arms against the horrible cold, inside and out. His breath was coming hot and fast, misting in the night air, and for once in his life he was standing his ground. "I don't want your help, I've done nothing wrong, and you've no cause to search me or my car!"

His words seemed to hang in the air, a minor incantation of their own. Both cops paused. 

Officer Hornby sighed. "He's right, Smith," he said sadly. "We've no cause to search."

Smith pulled an identical hangdog face. "Nah, we don't, do we?" Smith said. "Not until he took a swing at me."

Trott blinked. "What? I -"

And then both cops were on him. The world spun in a confused tangle of hands and bodies. Trott fought for his life but the cops had the advantage of size, strength, training, numbers. In seconds he was face first on the dirt, his hands forced behind his back.

"Stay still!" Smith grunted behind him. Metal clicked around his wrists, and a hand dug for his keys in his pocket. "Or we'll make it felony assault. Ross, see what this twat's got in the trunk."

"No!" Trott screamed, arching himself off the ground. "Please, for the love of God don't open the -"

The distinctive squeal of the car's trunk cut him off, as did Hornby's sharp intake of breath.

"What the _actual fuck_ \- !" The cop's voice abruptly spiked into a scream. 

"Ross!" yelled Smith. The pressure on Trott's back released. A moment later a second scream joined the first. 

There was a nice tuft of grass a few inches away. Trott buried his face in it and curled up, eyes clenched shut until the screaming and the horrible wet noise of flesh ripping apart stopped. 

The Trabant roared to life with a satisfied growl of its engine. With a shudder it crushed the industrial strength carjack beneath it, a new tire swelling to life like a boil out of the wheelwell. 

The brand on Trott's arm glowed red hot and leftover power flooded into him. The steel handcuffs snapped like paper as he flinched against them. 

The first time Trott had tried to starve the car, he'd found the Trabant could power up off nothing but a couple stray cats. Two humans - especially larger ones - would be enough fuel for weeks. More than enough to get back to the city. Back to its preferred hunting ground.

The Trabant's engine revved in a pattern that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. The driver side swung open, clipping Trott's boot.

Trott rolled onto his back, buried his head in his hands, and wept.


	5. The Yelp of Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross held his breath and prayed as the two bandits drew closer to his hiding spot. He was under the thickest growing bush he could find, but he had a sneaking suspicion that leaves weren't going to be much protection against the spear one bandit was thrusting into the undergrowth. 
> 
> His new... companions had told him to stay put in no uncertain terms, but surely they didn't mean for him to hold still while he was stabbed to death? Or maybe that was exactly what they meant, since his stupid clumsiness had already drawn this patrol their way. Maybe this was where he died and everyone back home was right and he really wasn't fit for anything beyond sweeping out a temple and running errands for his betters...
> 
> The skittering of claws on bark broke his chain of thought. Ross looked up to see a sleek, fat lizard, speckled red and green, creeping out onto a branch right over the bandits. Its round yellow eye peered right through the brush to Ross and it flicked its tongue saucily. Then it leapt - and transformed midair into 200 pounds of grinning human male.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had two ideas about shapeshifters and the undead. This was idea number two but hoo boy did it take FOREVER to write. Fight scenes are easy, dialog and exposition are haaaaaard.

Ross held his breath and prayed as the two bandits drew closer to his hiding spot. He was under the thickest growing bush he could find, but he had a sneaking suspicion that leaves weren't going to be much protection against the spear one bandit was thrusting into the undergrowth. 

His new... companions had told him to stay put in no uncertain terms, but surely they didn't mean for him to hold still while he was stabbed to death? Or maybe that was exactly what they meant, since his stupid clumsiness had already drawn this patrol their way. Maybe this was where he died and everyone back home was right and he really wasn't fit for anything beyond sweeping out a temple and running errands for his betters...

The skittering of claws on bark broke his chain of thought. Ross looked up to see a sleek, fat lizard, speckled red and green, creeping out onto a branch right over the bandits. Its round yellow eye peered right through the brush to Ross and it flicked its tongue saucily. Then it leapt - and transformed midair into 200 pounds of grinning human male.

Bandit One went down with a startled squawk under Smith's boots and quarterstaff. Bandit Two spun around - straight into a puff of mist and a dagger into his neck. He made a horrible gurgle and dropped at the feet of the elf in dark leathers who'd appeared out of thin air. Bandit One lay frozen next to him - actually frozen, the skin of his face turned blueish and coated in frost crystals where the human withdrew his hand.

"Holy shit!" gasped out Ross, forgetting that he was still supposed to be hiding. Fortunately, his new friends both seemed too pleased with themselves to notice.

"Nothing holy about it," smirked Smith, offering Ross a hand still frosted with ice. "That's more your go, isn't it?" He flicked at the medallion hanging heavy on its leather cord around Ross's neck. Ross automatically twisted away but Smith just laughed and clapped him on the back. Ross staggered slightly. "Relax! You did good."

Ross eyed him nervously, waiting for the punchline. "Really?" 

"Oh, yeah." Smith smirked. "Top notch bait." Trott, flicking through the bandits' clothing with professional quickness, gave a snort of laughter.

Ross still wasn't sure what to make of these... well, mercenaries was probably the most generous term. Kinder than thieves, cutpurses, cutthroats, murder-hobos, etc. He couldn't even make sense of them as a pair. In Shadowgarden they would have laughed at the idea of an elf - even a wood elf, like Trott clearly was - being friends with a human. Never mind that Ross’s very existence was proof an elf and a human could be considerably more intimate. 

Ross gave his head a shake. He needed to get his mind in the moment. He'd survived his first day of adventuring, talking his would-be muggers into an alliance. Now he just need to survive day two. 

He leaned down and gingerly tugged at the spear still clenched in the dead bandit’s hand.

“Oi,” Smith said from where he was retrieving his pack. “Did we say you could have a weapon?”

Ross sighed and let go of the spear. Maybe alliance was too strong a word just yet.

Trott rolled up to his feet with a slight grimace, the bandits' purses in hand.

“Slim pickings,” the elf grumbled, emptying one purse into his own pouch. “Either they weren’t paid recently or they’re not paid well.” He pointed his dagger at Ross. It was just what he happened to have in his hand, it wasn’t a threat. Probably. “You better be telling the truth about that reward.”

“What?” Ross took a step back. “Why would I - what do you -?”

“It’s going two ways.” Trott jabbed a thumb at himself and Smith. “Me and him.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ross let out his breath. “I told you, I don’t care about the gold. I’m just here to see the villagers safe.”

Smith huffed out a laugh. “Clerics.”

But Trott was eyeing Ross speculatively. Instinctively Ross hunched his shoulders under the elf’s gaze, trying to hide his size. And his ears. 

“You strike me,” said Trott, “As someone without a lot of confidence.”

Ross opened his mouth to protest. Trott waved him off, again with a slight wince. “No, that’s good,” he said. “Me, I like a companion with a crushing sense of his own inadequacies. Makes up for that showboater over there.” 

He chucked the second purse at Smith's head. Smith snagged it easily. "I'm the showboater?" he protested. "Says Mister 'I need more coin for my gear, Smith'? Mister 'it'll pay for itself in intimidation, Smith'?"

The elf crossed his arms and glared back. "That's right, Mister 'I burnt a perfectly good spell for my death-from-above stunt.'"

"Oh, is that so, Mister 'my fancy armor's shit but I _still_ burnt my spell _and_ went face-to-face just to get myself fucking stabbed... guy'?"

____Ross turned his head sharply. "You're hurt?" Now he could see it, the dark fabric of the wood elf's shirt gone slick and wet at the left shoulder. "I can help you with that."_ _ _ _

____"Oh, it's just a scratch," Trott protested, trying to shrug and wincing again. Ross ignored him. He dropped a hand over the wound and turned his focus inwards, reaching for that small but unbreakable thread at the center of his being. It thrummed, and the smallest portion of Corellan's divinity flowed through him into the elf's wound. Trott's eyes widened a moment as the magic took hold and burned out like incense. Ross took his hand away and the wound was closed._ _ _ _

____"Well." Trott gave his shoulder an experimental roll and graced Ross with an actual, genuine smile. "You are full of delightful surprises, Rob."_ _ _ _

____Ross sighed again. "It’s Ross."_ _ _ _

____"Whatever," Trott said, swinging his arm in a wide circle with a happy hum as he wandered off in the direction the bandits had come from._ _ _ _

____Now it was Smith eyeing Ross suspiciously. "Thought you said you were just an acolyte."_ _ _ _

____"Yes," Ross frowned, puzzled. "Of the temple of Corellan, where I was left as an infant - "_ _ _ _

____"In Shadowgarden. An _elf_ city." Smith jabbed a finger into Ross's sternum. "How'd you wind up with a human name?"___ _

______"Um..." Ross felt his face burning hot. Of course, if elves thought he looked human, then a human would think he looked... "Because I'm not really an elf?"_ _ _ _ _ _

______Smith looked at him like he'd just suggested the world _wasn't_ held together by magic and the will of the gods. "Not really an elf? What, you got some kind of illusion or polymorph or - ?"___ _ _ _

________"Smith!" hissed Trott in a very different tone of voice. He was at the slight rise at the edge of the treeline, dropped flat on his stomach, staring down over the edge. "Give the cleric the spear and get over here!"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Smith immediately shoved the bandit's spear at Ross and hurried to Trott's side. Ross gave the spear an experimental heft, then followed with more caution. He wasn't going to draw attention twice in one day._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Below them stretched a small valley cut through by a swampy river. To the southwest end was a rocky outcropping and around that a rough camp had been set up. It was the missing villagers, or at least a few of them, their clothing now muddy and tattered. They were hauling rocks out from what had to be cave. A handful of bandits - Ross counted six - prodded viciously at the slower ones with whips and rods. But far more alarmingly, the camp was infested with..._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Are those undead?" Trott asked in disbelief. There were a good twenty zombies forming a loose half circle around the camp and the work site. They stood rooted in place as if their feet were stuck to the ground, swaying and moaning and eyeing the terrified villagers hungrily._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"They must be enchanted, or controlled," Ross said. His stomach turned at the unnatural sight. The thread was twanging loudly in discordant alarm. "Probably to attack the villagers if anyone tries to escape."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"You said they were slavers," said Smith through his teeth._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"I thought - we all thought they were," Ross whispered back._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Those are just rocks they're piling up," Trott said softly. "What in the nine hells are they doing down there?"_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Doesn't matter." Smith backed up, rising to his hands and knees. "We're leaving."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Ross grabbed his arm. "You can't! The reward - "_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________"Can't spend it if we're dead." Smith yanked away. "There's too many _things _down there. And the gods only know what's going to come out of that cave. Cultists. Liches. Lich cultists. Come on, Trott."___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Trott didn't move. He lay with his chin propped on his hand, frowning down at the camp._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"You can do this!" Ross insisted. "I'll take care of all the zombies, you just have to deal with the bandits."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________In unison, both Smith and Trott turned to him with matching disbelieving looks._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"Sorry," Trott said, "You'll take care of _all _the zombies how?"___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Ross held up his medallion, unable to repress a slight smirk. "That's my go, isn't it? I'll drive them off, you'll have a clear shot at the bandits and the villagers can make a run for it."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Trott looked to Smith, raised his eyebrows in silent question. Smith scowled, but crouched back down beside his partner._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"You're going down there first," he grumbled to Ross. "And if you can't turn those things, we're gone. You're on your own."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"Fair enough," Ross stood, brushed himself off. "Be sure you don't attack the zombies while they're fleeing." And he strode right down the hill, towards the camp, before he could change his mind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Dimly he was aware that he should have been terrified, should have been shaking in his boots. But the thread in his heart was thrumming with silvery joy, so loud Ross felt like he was vibrating with faith and divine magic. The spear was surprisingly well balanced and sturdily made. Ross gave it a spin and it turned across his palm like it had been made for him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________For the first time in his life, Ross _knew _that he was exactly where he was meant to be. He felt Corellan's presence upon him stronger than ever before. They felt sharp and anticipatory, ready for battle, ready to wield Ross as their weapon as surely as Ross could wield a spear.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________He would turn the undead. He would save the villagers. He would defeat whatever unholiness waited in the cave._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________And then after that it would be day three, and he could figure out how to break it to Trott and Smith that he'd sort of stretched the truth about there being a reward._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
